Having Thoughts About T4t Cowboy Artrick | 18+ MDNI

  A HELPING HAND

summary: it's the last night at mark rebelatto's tennis academy for art and patrick. the last night of being bunkmates, the last night of staying up to talk about tennis, the last night before art is off to stanford and patrick goes on tour. when art falls asleep, patrick usually jerks off like any regular guy with needs. it's not weird of course. he taught art how to jerk off in this very room afterall. but tonight is different. patrick would already be finishing into a sock if it weren't for arts quiet little sobs.

pairing: patrick zweig x art donaldson

content warning: 18+ mdni mlm mutual masturbation mutual handjob internalized homophobia?

word count: 2.4k

authors note: ahh this is my first fic! i was inspired by a post i saw a week or two ago but i can't remember what the @ was. the concept stuck with me and i just had to write something. i hope it's enjoyable... if it is i'll make a part two. happy reading!!

taglist: @fwaist @pittsick @cowboyfaists @manipulatemedonaldson @glassmermaids @zionna @femme-lusts

for the last hour, patricks hand has progessively slid lower and lower until it's found purchase at the waistband of his boxers. he'll occasionaly dip his fingers beneath it out of boredom, but he can't find it in him to go any further. not when the room is practically calling out to him. each corner holds a different memory. the walls, which have heard all of the late the night conversations between him and art. the trophies, that they've both worked their asses off for. the beds, where patrick taught art how to jerk off when they were younger. where they talked about kat zimmerman. where they came at the same time. it was underlined with a sensuality both of them would take to the grave. he can't believe it but he might miss the place. not the constant pressure nor his judgy peers. just the memories. all of which are with art.

speaking of, patrick looks across the room in an attempt to make out arts figure in the dark. his eyes have a hard time adjusting and he can only hope he's asleep. he opens his mouth to check but thinks better of it and looks up at the ceiling. his fingers slip under the waistband of his boxers once more, sliding more downwards than before. he's about to wrap a hand around his growing hardness when he hears something. he yanks his hand back and sits up slightly, eyes searching the darkness.

if patrick strains his ears enough he can hear the muffled cries coming from the direction of arts bed. he sits up completely and plants his feet on the floor, causing it to creak under the new weight. patrick curses inwardly to himself when it goes quiet. "art? are you uh.. are you awake?" he whispers loudly in hopes that his best friend won't ignore him.

"...yeah, sorry if i woke you up." art whispers back after a beat. patrick almost laughs at how pathetic he sounds. like he always does. but the sniffle that follows is enough to have him crossing the room and sitting down on arts bed.

the silence that follows is uncomfortable and long. uncomfortably long, if you will. patrick has never been good at comfort. he can't even think of an instance where he's actually comforted someone. he tends to just make a joke in hopes of lightening the mood. that or he aborts the scene before tears fall. too late now. "what's wrong?" the words don't even sound like his own and it takes him by surprise. it's something he's never asked before in his life. apparently it surprises art even more because he sits up and gives him a curious look. "why do you care? it doesn't even matter." patrick scoffs at that. "it does matter." his tone is uncharacteristically soft. "but you're also keeping me up, so either talk to me or spare me the trouble." he redeems himself before art has more questions that he can't answer. why does it even matter?

another beat. "i'm just— i don't know— i'm sad, i guess. about leaving. we grew up here and now we're moving on. leaving it in the past." he shrugs and looks down at his lap like a kicked puppy. patrick only sighs because art's right. he himself was reminiscing for the last hour, barely even able to get hard because of the memories plaguing him. "i get it, this place means a lot to us. but you got accepted into stanford and i'm going on tour. we're going further than we ever dreamed of. we'll finally have more to our names than this shitty academy." he laughs and ruffles arts curls, settling for the joking tactic. "yeah.. you're right." his tear stained eyes finally meet patricks and he offers a sad smile. patrick offers one back and it's far different than his customary smirk or grin.

but it was gone as quick as it came. "are we done here? 'cause you kinda ruined my me time, if you catch my drift." patrick makes a jerking off gesture with his hand, as if his words weren't comprehendable alone. "right..." arts smile falters when he notices the tent in patricks boxers. was that there the whole time?

he should be disgusted if it was. here he is, crying and in need of comfort. maybe even a lullaby. all the while his best friend is harboring a boner and can't even offer him a hug. but if the way his own cock is filling out says anything about what he's feeling, it's definitely not disgust.

and of course patrick catches on immediately, eyes watching the quickening growth in arts boxers. it's only then that he's reminded of his own which he left aching and wanting. their attention shifts from their dicks to each other once again. it's even quieter than before. so quiet that the gears in patricks mind can almost be heard working overtime.

eventually, he voices what he was thinking so hard about. "i could help you take your mind off of things if you want—" art shakes his head vigorously as if he'd rather die. "no, i don't want." patrick scoffs "really? well, i didn't know you were the type to get a random boner." he nods to the tent in arts boxers that now matches his own. "i'm not— i don't— it's a natural reaction—" art stammers, a flush already rising to his cheeks. "a natural reaction to what? my dick?" patrick grins, fully aware he has him cornered. all art can do is grab one of his pillows and plant it firmly over his lap, avoiding patricks gaze yet again.

there's that gleam in patricks eye. the one that shines when he's planning something regrettable, which is often. "come on, art." patrick drawls and leisurely crawls over him. he rips the pillow from his grip and sets it off to the side. "do you remember when i taught you how to jerk off? we did it together, right here in this room. you on this bed, a whimpering mess." he smiles down at art, dimples making him look slightly less devilish. "it's our last night here. you really wanna spend it sulking? let's just.. give each other a hand." his fingers trail down arts bare torso before he finds and palms his buldge, relishing in the whine it pulls from him. "for old times sake." he adds, as if that will make it any better. "f—for old times sake?" art asks hesitantly, unsure how he's even able to form words at this point. "yeah, for old times sake." patrick echoes and his palm presses down harder.

when art bucks his hips up instead of telling him off, patrick takes it as a yes and hooks his thumbs into the waistband of arts boxers. he tugs them down slowly as if to prolong his discomfort. when they're finally off, he tosses them into the void and his own follow suit. patrick props one hand beside arts head for support as the other finds his hip. art is staring between them, to which patrick follows his line of sight. their cocks are rock solid and straining against their stomachs, arts leaking pre-cum already. patrick removes his hand from its place on arts hip and wraps it around his base, avoiding arts at all costs. you see, palming and actually touching are totally different things. to the two of them at least.

he strokes himself once. twice. by the third, art is grabbing his own and mimicking patricks motions. they set a pace with their hands in sync whether it's purposeful or not. the previous silence of the night is now filled with ragged breathing and the occasional moan. patrick focuses his eyes on the headboard while art shuts his every now and then. they never make eye contact. it's an unspoken rule. one that would be way weird if broken. although, patrick does take the chances when arts eyes are closed to admire him. he watches the slight flutter of his eyelids, or how his eyebrows scrunch with pleasure, but mainly the way his lips part to let out sounds that go straight to patricks gut.

he doesn't even realize that his hand is leaving his cock and wrapping around arts until it's too late. arts eyes fly open and his hand stills. he wants to pull his hand away and ask him what he's doing. but they're making eye contact—dammit they're making eye contact—and all rational thoughts flee his mind. especially when patrick slowly moves their hands, guiding arts strokes. he's not even touching him and yet it's enough to make him lose it. "please—" art chokes out, staring into patricks eyes pleadingly. "please what?" it almost comes out tauntingly but it's far from it. "let's just... help each other out, like you said." the words leave a weird taste in arts mouth but he ignores it. patrick stops the movement of their hands and stares at art in contemplation. his eyes flick from arts to his lips then back. "alright. no kissing though, i'm not gay or anything." patricks words are laced with underlying meaning but they're both too lost in the moment to acknowledge it. arts insistent head nodding speaks for itself.

arts hand slips out from under patricks, allowing him to truly grip his cock. the moans they both let out is an obscene combination. patrick should've have stopped it from going this far. he knew that. but when arts hand wraps around his own ache he can't find any reason why he would.

they resume the pace of earlier but it quickly turns frenzied. hands pump, thumbs rub tips, free hands grab balls. their noses either drag across the others cheek or smush against one another. they share the same breath but they never kiss and they maintain their eye contact rule (with the exception of earlier.)

it isn't long before they're both thrusting into each others fists. art mostly, the needy thing. "fuck yeah— just like that." patrick moans into arts ear, so very tempted to pull the lobe into his mouth and suck on it. "like this?" arts tone is almost innocent even as he flicks his wrist. "mmmh exactly." patricks movements get sloppier, so do arts. the heat between them is boiling but the feeling is so good it feels like they're in heaven and hell all at once.

their climaxes rise at the same time, art working through his faster. "please pat— oh shit— patrick i'm gonna—" his words are cut off by a moan that sounds like it was extorted straight from his soul. patricks name on arts lips is enough to have his orgasm following right after. "yes— just like that art- fuuuuck-" ropes of white come shoot out from their swollen tips, crossing paths before landing on each others stomachs.

patrick collapses onto his back next to art, both boys covered in the others release and gasping for air. they don't find it in themselves to look at each other, at the damage they've done. they just stare at the ceiling and relish in the left over pleasure.

patrick is the first one to make a move, getting up and looking around for his boxers. art sits up to watch him. definitely not to stare at his naked form. once he finds them, patrick pulls them on and tosses arts to him. he takes a moment to let what they just did sink in. he looks over art from head to toe as he tugs his boxers on himself. his eyes linger a little too long on the mess on arts stomach. his mess on arts stomach. arts mess on his stomach. a strange feeling of pride swells in his chest and it makes him feel sick. he knows art must feel just as sick, if not more. it's not like patrick has never thought about this before. he has. more times than he'd like to admit. it's that he knows art hasn't and never will. so he deems it best to avoid it.

he walks into their bathroom and comes back with two cloths. he carelessly throws one to art and walks back to his side of the room to clean himself off in the mirror. however, he keeps an eye on art in the reflection. he watches as he quickly wipes off the liquid as if it was toxic waste. patrick does it himself, and they discard them in their trash bins.

art fixes his pillows and pulls the sheets over him whilst patrick settles himself back in his own bed. they don't exchange looks or even a goodnight. they simply turn over and fall asleep.

  —

in the morning, patrick and art are up at their typical time. aka the ass crack of dawn. they're both tired, like usual, but more so from their late night activities. they each mutter a goodmorning and make small talk here and there while they get ready for the day. "how'd you sleep?" "good, you?" "pretty good." "nice."

when the time comes for packing, patrick almost expects to see art crying as he brings in empty boxes. but he's not. his demeanor is entirely different than how it was last night. before... everything.

"want some help?" patrick offers when art begins to stuff his respective boxes. "sure, if you don't mind." they spend an hour packing all of arts stuff, nice and neat, and another hour packing patricks stuff, unorganized and an overall mess.

by the end of it the room looks empty, but they both know it's not. it's full. full of memories and shared moments. full of secrets that will never leave. full of whatever happened between them last night.

patrick is the one to break the heavy silence. "wanna play a match later? i'll even buy us some beer after." art switches his focus, eyes locking with patricks (now that the rule isn't in place) and grins. "only if you get the good stuff."

"when have I ever not gotten the good stuff?" from the smiles on both of their faces, you wouldn't think that they were leaving a big chunk of their lives behind. you also wouldn't think that they jerked each other off the night prior.

why he kinda...

only kinda?? Cmon now girl…

never wanted 2 be a cat more MRRRROWWW

ugh jo you're always exceeding expectations

virgin art x patrick hcs i’m begging you

i KNOW it didnt just stop after their little jerk off sesh

warnings: 18+, handjob, gay and REPRESSED

oh yeah no absolutely not.

i think as they grew up there was def a lot more. like to the point where they can't even jerk off without each other in the room because they can't finish otherwise. but both of them are very much subject to the "five feet apart cause they're not gay" rule. it doesn't count if they're in their own beds and not touching!!! totally normal

and then one of them (i'm gonna say art) sprains his good wrist. nothing long-term damage, just a few weeks without tennis. and he's sooo pent up and patrick feels kinda bad just getting off on the other side of the room while art looks so forlorn with his pyjama bottoms tenting comically. bottom lip trembling, like on the verge of tears because he just wants to touch himself soooo bad

"do you want me to—"

and the question isn't even finished before art is nodding eagerly like a bobblehead. patrick practically leaps to his bed like an olympic sprinter. then he's braced on top of art who's still nursing his sore wrist (poor baby), holding out his palm expectantly. art's confused, brows furrowed and bottom lip still jutted out.

"spit. i'm not using my own. that's weird." because jerking off your best friend totally isn't weird in the first place!!! but art obliges and spits a generous amount of saliva into patrick's outstretched palm (because he's literally been drooling watching him touch himself for the last five minutes.)

when patrick's hand slips down into his chequered pants, he almost orgasms instantly. the feeling of his rough palm and thick fingers, all slicked up with his own spit, wrapping around him... ugh. he dies on the spot. and normally they talk about the girls at the academy, whether it's just seeing some girl's tits in a sports bra after practice or whoever they've made out with that week under the bleachers.

but their room is utterly silent other than the sound of heavy breathing and the obscene sound of a wet hand pumping up and down art's cock. intense eye contact, patrick's breathing just as rough as his own. he knows if he looks at him any longer he's going to cum so he ends up shutting his eyes, head thumping back against his pillow.

his uninjured hand balls into a fist to bite down on and patrick is sorely tempted to move it away so he can actually hear him. but that'd be too much so he just settles for listening to the stifled sounds art makes. he's a lot more whiny when someone else is touching him. he also looks a lot prettier up close—brows pinched together, nose scrunched up as his teeth sink into his knuckles.

when he finally does cum, that muffled little, "oh-oh, f-fuck, patrick—" is criminally hot. he cleans art up and climbs into his own bed, ignoring the fact he's hard again after jerking himself off before art.

for the rest of art's recovery, patrick lends him a helping hand (literally). and then even AFTER that they end up jerking each other off regularly. like patrick comes back to their room after a failed hook-up, grumbling about wanting to get some so art says 'let's just jerk it out' and they end up kneeling in front of each other, hand wrapped around each other while patrick groans about her being a prude. art couldn't care less when he's being touched like this but he nods along anyways.

it gets to the point where they’re so used to hearing each other groaning that they have pavlovian reactions on the court. art’s more of a whiner so it isn’t as bad for patrick but the way he grunts is so reminiscent of the sounds he makes when he’s close, it has art adjusting his stiffy at least once per set. but it’s okay bc as soon as they’re back in their dorm patrick’s there to take care of it under the guise of “wow you must have been looking at amy’s tits bounce all practice.”

it's always just handjobs. patrick drunkenly suggests using his mouth once and art vehemently denies him bc that'd make it too real. no kissing (even if they stare at each other's mouths the entire time). they dry-hump a few times and afterwards patrick always hears art sniffling in his bed guiltily. but handjobs don't count!!!

moral of the story that's why they make awkward eye contact when tashi asks if they've ever done anything together. bc the cum rag art threw on the pillow before she came in is stained with BOTH of them.

Hi jo sorry if this isn’t what you normally write and you can ignore it if you want. I would just love a sort of comfort fic of reader losing their virginity to art but she’s uncomfortable and wants to stop and he’s sweet about it

No pressure I love everything you put out ♡

don't apologise pookie this is sweet :) <3

warnings: 18+ sex (p in v), insecure/uncomfortable reader, loss of virginity, very quickly (+ poorly) written apologies x

This is decidedly not how you expected losing your virginity to go.

Art was a gentleman. Waiting patiently for months, never pressuring you into anything despite the fact he'd spent countless nights leaving your dorm blue-balled and in dire need of a cold shower. Even when you suggested taking that next step, he made you insist several times that it was really what you wanted.

No, he wasn't the problem.

It took fifteen minutes with his head between your thighs for you to cum. That part was great. It was what came next that made things awkward: Art perched above you, one hand entwined with our own while the other guided him into you. The stretch was overwhelming, enough to render you breathless for the next few seconds as he eased in slowly. Each thick, solid inch has your toes curling and your lungs desperately gathering air.

An affirmative nod of your head to confirm that you were okay (you weren't) and he was rocking into you, groaning about how tight and good you felt. Everyone always said it gets better. But it's been two minutes of him thrusting into you, jaw slack with pleasure and eyes screwed shut while he babbles praises senselessly about how well you're taking it, and things are decidedly not better.

You can't take it anymore. The discomfort of having another person so deep inside you, the stretch, the burning pain...

"Art, stop."

He doesn't hear you at first. You're quiet, drowned out by the sound of skin slapping against skin and his ragged sounds of pleasure.

"Art." Your free hand finds his shoulder. Fingers curling into the sweat-slick skin, face strained in displeasure. "Stop, please."

Now you've got his attention. His eyes snap onto yours again, hips slowing to a halt. "What?" He blinks lamely. Despite his initial obliviousness, at least he's stopped moving.

"I just... I can't," you explain weakly, choking on a hitched breath.

It's not the most eloquent reply ever, but what are you supposed to say? This is awful. It's nothing like I expected. I'm having a terrible time. It hurts, it's uncomfortable, it's—

You could say all of that, actually. You just don't want to hurt his feelings.

"Okay," he says, brows furrowing. "Are you, um... are you okay? I'm sorry, was I going too fast?"

His hand moves to push your hair gently out of your face. Sweet boy. You can't find it in yourself to be upset.

"No, you're fine," you reply, trying for a smile. It falls terribly flat.

"Are you—" A pause, hand squeezing yours as he braces himself up on his other one. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," you reply, embarrassed by the way his eyes are searching your face with such genuine concern. You wish you could just melt into the mattress and pretend this never happened. "Can you just... can you get off, please?"

"Oh!" He blinks, glancing down. "Right. Yeah, yeah. I'm sorry."

The process of him pulling out is far less agonising, and you breathe a sigh of relief, body relaxing beneath him. He's still watching you with that same worried look as he lays down next to you, fingers twitching by his sides uncertainly.

"Too much?" He asks tentatively. You nod sheepishly, eyes averted. "I'm so sorry, baby. I didn't—did I hurt you? Are you okay?"

It feels like the hundredth time he's posed the question, but he's panicking inwardly about your apparent state of discomfort as you shift restlessly, eyes fixated on some point over his shoulder. You feel embarrassed. Guilty. Like a failure.

What's the point in him dating you if you can't even handle sex?

You don't voice any of that out loud, but he can see it in your eyes; the way your bottom lip quivers slightly as the all of the emotions cross plainly across your face. Or how your eyes glisten with unshed tears.

"I'm sorry," you whisper, voice cracking.

"No, no, no. Why are you apologising?" He replies instantly. He lifts a hand, pausing before he makes contact. "Is this okay?" When you nod your head, his hand cups your cheek, thumb brushing tenderly over your skin.

"You have nothing to be sorry for, baby. It's okay."

Your head shakes insistently. "No, I should be able to do it. I mean, what's the point if I can't?"

His knuckles linger against your cheek, and then he laughs. Just a soft huff of amusement, but enough to have you knitting your brows at him.

"What's the point?" He repeats softly, eyes crinkling down at you. "It's just sex, babe."

"Sex is a very integral part of a relationship!" You argue, wiping feebly at your eyes.

"Maybe," Art says, shrugging noncommittally as he watches your aborted attempt sympathetically. "Doesn't mean we have to have sex right now. There's always room to try again in the future, right?"

You hate that he makes sense. It's hard to wallow in your own self-pity when he's looking at you so tenderly, still caressing your cheek. "Right," you mumble reluctantly. "And if the future is never?"

"We'll tackle that hurdle when we get there," he says, dipping his head to kiss the tip of your nose. "Stop stressing. Let's just put a movie on and relax, 'kay?"

You pout at him for a second longer before relenting. Your head falls back into the pillow with a sigh as he settles back beside you, an arm draped across your middle to reach for the remote. A few more sniffles can be heard as you settle down.

"Thank you."

It's quiet, but he hears it. He sends you a soft smile. "You don't need to thank me."

"Well, I am," you reply, shifting to rest your head against his shoulder. All you get in reply is a light chuckle.

A few moments pass as he flicks through the channels before you speak up again. "Can you maybe put your boxers back on? I don't want to see your dick."

He snorts, tilting his head to press a kiss into the top of your hair. "Yeah. Yeah, okay."

a doordash ad just called me a good boy

YAYYYY IJM BACK IN!!!! Thank u anon...

marvel bots Today. ill drop a sneakpeek from my laptop soon + hopefully another misc req release this week :))

Hello tumblr i have been So lazy maybe ill post today

JOAQUIN JOAQUIN JOAQUIN

might drop a few other marvel chars w my thunderbolts drop... (joaquin. need that) but if u guys want anyone else lmk

Art Donaldson?

for everyone who isn’t listening:

people are not upset that bucky is part of a new team. we don’t want him to “remain in sam’s shadow” (not that he ever was).

people are rightfully angry that this movie is further pushing the narrative that sam is not a right fit to be captain america, or lead the avengers. if you have not seen the severe increase in hate and racism to sam (and anthony mackie) after this movie came out, then you have been living under a rock.

people are upset that there has been an increase in “john walker should have been cap” comments, when the entirety of tfatws (and thunderbolts, honestly) proved exactly why he would be a horrible captain america.